Faithless
by GirlNextDoor
Summary: A bit of classic Smallville for ya. A series of breakins and attacks have Smallville residents worried, and all fingers point towards Clark. He must clear his name, as well as stop the assailant who even he can't deny seems to share some grudges with him.
1. Prologue

"And now, all because Martin Luther King had a dream, we are able to live in a world where everyone can join hands and shout to the skies; "Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, we are free at -"

Clark's speech was cut off by the loud ringing of the bell, signaling the end of the school day.

"- last."

"Thank you Mr. Kent, that was very touching." Said their English teacher, Mrs. Goldenberg, fighting to be heard over the racket the class was making, each student trying to be the first out the door. "Grades will be posted Wednesday. Read pages 136 to 137 for homework tonight. There will be a test next Monday."

Clark walked back to his desk to collect his books, jostled among the hoard of students. He was pleased to see that Pete had waited for him.

"Man, it's like a jungle out there." He said as Clark packed his bag.

Clark couldn't help smiling just a little as he swung his bag onto his shoulder.

They walked out of the classroom into the now totally deserted hallway, the 'angry mob' having departed as quickly as they formed.

Just a typical Thursday afternoon in Smallville.

That night, Clark sat in his loft, reading the pages for homework, the chill air drifting in through the permanently open hayloft window, causing him no physical effect, apart from slight uneasiness as he stared out at the neighboring farms, the thin, eerie mist drifting a few inches above the ground, making Smallville look like a ghost town.

He shivered and turned back to his textbook.

The mist was thicker when you were waking through it. The round October moon was large and bright, but it did little to illuminate the deserted road stretching in front of the lone figure walking it, as did neither the occasional streetlight.

Clearly, this part of town wasn't suburban enough to warrant more than one lamppost every fifty meters.

"Evening" A raspy voice emitted from the shadows.

Chloe's head jerked up. An elderly man, who bore a striking resemblance to Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal Lector, she realized with a shiver, grinned a toothy, crooked grin at her as she passed by.

She muttered a quiet reply, and hurried past, the man staring arrogantly after her, satisfied he had rattled her.

Chloe stole a quick glance behind her, then pulled her coat tighter around herself, and kept walking.

_October 14th _

_Dear Diary,_

_Isn't it funny how one person's opinion can alter your own so easily, even when the person giving the opinion isn't one you would normally go to for advice? That's right, as usual, I am talking about Clark._

_Why is it so maddening? I claim to have feelings for him, but at times, I loath him with every fiber of my being. _

_What he said isn't important. I don't want to write it down in case one day I'm lucky enough to forget the huge fight we had today. In any case, I don't think we'll be on speaking terms for the next few days._

_The house is very peaceful at the moment. Chloe's gone for a walk down the road to the store. What would be the odds that we would run out of milk on the one day that both our cars are at the repair shop? Her dad's working late in Metropolis, and probably wont be home until early tomorrow morning._

_I'm starting to feel a little lonely. Maybe I'll go and call Clark. Maybe I over reacted. It might not have been that beg a deal._

_Until next time._

_Lana _

Pete sank slowly into the couch, letting his hot chocolate filling his body with warmth and cinnamonny goodness.

It was chilly, even for the middle of autumn. Not cold enough to be digging through the Ross's musty basement in search of the few moth-eaten duvets they kept down there, but never used. However, the frosty air and creepy fog definitely sent some shivers up his spine, and not just those that were caused by the sudden drop in temperature, either.

He clicked the TV on, and buried his face in his mug, allowing the warm vapor from the drink to defrost his nose.

Lana picked up the phone and dialed Clark's home number. She hoped she didn't seem too desperate, and was just considering hanging up, when the phone was answered by Martha.

"Hi, Mrs. Kent. Is Clark around?" She asked

"No, I'm sorry Lana, he's gone out." Martha answered

"Oh." Lana said, deflated. "Do you know where he went?"

"No, he didn't say." Replied Martha

"Oh." Lana frowned. It was not like Clark to go out without telling anyone where he was going.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the door clicked open, signaling Chloe's arrival home.

"Hey, Chloe, that was fast!" Lana called to her, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

She waited a few seconds, but there was no reply.

"Chloe?" Lana called again, a little wary.

Still no reply. She heard the door quietly click shut behind whoever had entered.

Suddenly, the power cut out, plunging the house into total darkness.

Lana let out an involuntary little scream, making the connection that whoever had just come into their house was not Chloe, and had not been invited.

Trembling, she cursed herself for calling out to Chloe, realizing that she had just revealed her presence to the intruder.

She remembered the phone in her hand, and raised it back to her ear, whispering;

"Mrs. Kent?"

There was no answer. The line had gone dead.

She was on her own.


	2. Intruder

The bright yellow school bus pulled up in front of Smallville High, a sea of students pouring from it the second the driver opened the doors.

Clark occasionally took the bus rather than driving or running, more for old time's sake than anything else.

Today was one of those days. He had been completely isolated, as all his friends drove to school, but he hadn't minded. It was nice to get a little space sometimes, and just stare out the window, and watch the cornfields roll by.

He separated himself from the ocean of teenagers, and went in search of his friends.

Chloe spotted Clark get off the bus, and pushed past the students milling around in front of the school building, making her way to him almost frantically.

"Clark!" She panted once she was only about ten feet away.

"Hey, Chloe!" Clark spotted her and greeted her warmly.

"Clark! You'll never believe what happened! Last night, oh my god, our… our… and, Lana, and…" Chloe spluttered, making little if any sense.

"Woah, woah, Chloe, calm down." Clark said, making the obvious assumption that something was wrong, and leading Chloe over to a nearby bench under a maple tree.

"What happened last night?"

"A… uh…" Chloe managed to stutter before submitting to hyperventilation.

She had thought that she could do this, but actually having to recount the event out loud, made her realize that it wouldn't be as easy as she had thought.

"Chloe, breathe." Clark coaxed her in what he hoped was a calming voice. "Breathe. Just take a few deep breaths, and then tell me what happened."

Chloe fought to control her breathing, futilely trying to expand her short, shallow breaths. When she finally achieved, she was surprised to find how much better it actually did make her feel.

When Clark sensed that she was feeling better, he asked;

"Now, can you tell me what's wrong?"

"S - someone… broke into our house last night." Chloe said shakily.

"What?" He asked. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, if a little traumatized," Chloe said. "But Lana…"

"What? What about Lana?" Clark asked.

"She's in Metropolis General." Chloe answered, knowing that she was totally selfish by thinking that Clark's reaction may not have been as pressing if it had been her in the hospital bed. However, it was obvious that she was fighting to keep from crying. "The guy who broke in attacked her. I was out, and when I got home, he ran off." She took a trembling breath.

"Oh my god!" Clark gasped. "Is she okay?"

Once again, Chloe felt that little pang of jealousy, followed by a surge of guilt. Did she really want to be the one stuck in a hospital bed?

"For God's sake, Clark, what do you think?" She hid her remorse behind an angry façade. "The guy broke both her legs, her right arm, two ribs, her collar bone and stabbed her in three different places. But yeah, she's just dandy."

"I'm sorry." Clark said quietly. "Maybe we should drive up to Metropolis after school to see her?"

"The doctors say she's not ready for visitors yet." Chloe replied. "And anyway, I wasn't aware you guys had made up yet."

"We haven't." Clark said. "But I think this is a bit more important than a silly fight."

"Hmm… I suppose you're right." Chloe said. "You know -"

The bell rang for first period, cutting her off.

"Hey, Clark!" Pete yelled, running to catch up with his friend.

"Hey, Pete." Clark mumbled, not slowing down. He looked annoyed.

"What's wrong?" Pete asked.

"Uh, some guy broke into my locker." Clark replied. "Stole all my books."

"Man, that sucks." Pete answered. "Do you know who it was?"

"Yeah, Wayne Somebody." Clark said.

"Never heard of him." Said Pete

"Neither had I." Clark answered.

"You want me to give you a ride home?" Pete asked, noting the lack of large red pickup truck in the school parking lot.

"Great." Clark said, following Pete to his car. "I don't know why I took the bus this morning."

Friday afternoon had finally arrived, which meant a whole weekend for Chloe to forget her worries.

She couldn't believe that it had been less than twenty-four hours since she had arrived home, and probably saved Lana's life by letting out a piercing, blood-curdling scream as she saw her roommate lying, bleeding on the floor, being stabbed and kicked by some nutcase.

She was surprised she had had the guts to step through the door when she arrived home that afternoon. The house contained such awful memories.

But all she wanted to do was stretch out on her bed and sleep the afternoon away.

So she rolled over, and did just that.

Of all the hours Lana had lay in her hospital bed, longing for consciousness, she never would have believed the pain that came with it once she finally got her wish.

She didn't hear exactly what the doctors had been saying to Chloe, but her subconscious mind had picked up the words 'stabbed', 'legs' and 'two ribs'.

She now wished more than anything to be able to return to that place in her mind where she felt no hurt, nor emotion, nor painful memories.

She closed her eyes and drew in a rattley breath. The pain was so overwhelming that it wasn't difficult to release her mind and slip back into unconsciousness.


	3. Blame

The blistering heat was no reflection of the night before, but Clark took refuge in the fact that the elements would reverse come that evening.

A black and white police cruiser moved slowly up the Kent's driveway, crunching through the dry brittle leaves fallen from the lush trees that had once lined it.

Clark opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch at the same time Sheriff Adams slammed her door and made her way up the front steps.

The late afternoon sun was beating down hard, the knowledge that he couldn't get a sunburn being of little consolation.

"Mr. Kent?" She asked, her heavy southern accent adding an extra edge to her small-town sheriff appearance. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Um, ok?" Clark said, a little wary.

"I'm sure you heard about Miss. Lang's accident -" She started.

"It wasn't an accident." Clark interrupted her. "She was attacked."

"I'm aware of that Mr. Kent." She said, keeping her voice flat, hiding her annoyance. "Us folk around her tend to keep within the bounds of political correctness."

"You wanted to ask me something?" Clark asked, not bothering to hide his own irritation.

"A boy from Smallville High was found dead in the locker rooms no more than two hours ago." She said. "His name was Wayne Rasmussen. I believe you and him had a little run-in when you caught him breaking into your locker this afternoon?"

"Yes." Clark confirmed.

"Hmm…" She said thoughtfully. "Would you say you and him were close?"

"No," Clark said. "I barely said two words to the guy, so I really don't understand what this has to do with me -"

"Mr. Kent." She cut him off. "I was told you also got into a little disagreement with Miss Lang , the afternoon before her attack."

Clark narrowed his eyes, beginning to see where she was taking this.

"What are you saying?" He asked, so as not to seem paranoid by making wild accusations.

"Is there any reason you might want to be getting a little revenge on these folk?" She asked forwardly.

"I didn't have anything to do with this!" Clark said, amazed that she could even think that.

"Hmm." She said, turning away slightly to start back to her car. "Murder and violent attacks come with some heavy penalties here in Kansas. I suggest you think about that, Mr. Kent."

When Chloe awoke, it was dark, the red digital display on her alarm clock revealing that it was almost midnight.

She sat up, noticing the chill air had returned from the night before, so she got up and tugged on a sweater. It did little to block the southerly draught that blew in the window she had foolishly left open, but it felt cozy and safe.

She had half a mind to crawl back into bed and carry on sleeping; the dark and deathly silent house was unnerving.

But the hunger pangs were making her feel very empty, so she warily tiptoed down the stairs in search of a midnight snack.

Chloe was understandably jumpy, after what had happened the night before, and thanks to her press pass, she had found out about Wayne. Clearly, Lana's attack hadn't been a one-time thing, but they say lightning doesn't strike in the same place twice. We'll see if that counted for crazy mass murderers.

Pete's bedside clock display confirmed his theory that it was far too late to call anyone.

He was much too nice a guy to try calling Chloe or Clark and risk waking them or their parents, even though they would probably still be up.

He picked up his cell phone and checked for new messages. There were none.

He sighed and turned over on his side, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to banish all thoughts from his mind. Finally, the insomnia gave way, and was replaced by a long-awaited deep sleep.

The only source of light in the Sullivan house was the bright glow of the moon shining in the kitchen window.

Chloe shivered as the sharp knife she was using to put peanut-butter on her bread caught the pale moonlight, bouncing it off the polished surfaces.

She quickly ate her sandwich, before tip-toeing back up the stairs, scurrying back to bed and diving under the covers.

The slumber didn't last long, and soon, Pete found himself once again lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

He checked his clock again. 1am. Still no new messages on his phone, and still far too late to call anybody.

Suddenly, his sleep-deprived brain hatched an idea, and he picked his cell phone back up again and sent a text message to Chloe. If she was up, she would get it.

The question of what to do for the next six hours was answered when Chloe's cell phone started beeping.

She snatched it up quickly before it woke her dad, and checked her inbox. There was one from Pete.

_R u up? Ring me. _

She smiled and picked up the telephone off her bedside table, dialing his number. It was answered on the first ring.

"Hmm, someone's been waiting by the phone." She commented.

"I took a chance you might still be up." Pete answered.

"I guess we're both candidates for the insomniacs anonymous club." Chloe quipped.

"No kidding." Pete agreed, and there was a short silence before Chloe changed the subject.

"So did you hear about Wayne?" She asked

"Yeah." Pete said. "It's funny, I only first heard of the guy this afternoon. Must have been only just before, you know…"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, don't say it." Chloe said, glancing around nervously, cursing herself for her stupid choice of discussion topic.

"It's freaky, huh?" Pete continued. "I mean, Wayne is his second victim in as many days, and-"

"You don't know its' the same guy." Chloe interrupted.

"Well, it's either that, or there's two of them." Pete said, causing Chloe to shudder.

"What do you think he wants?" Chloe asked. "I mean, is he just killing for fun, or does he want revenge…?"

"I don't know…" Pete trailed off. "You were with Lana all day before she was attacked. Did she piss anyone off?"

"Not that I know of…" Chloe said. "Although she did get into this huge fight with Clark, but…"

"What?" Pete asked, detecting a hint of thoughtfulness in her voice.

"I'm about to be really evil, but…" Chloe started cautiously.

"What is it?" Pete asked. "Tell me."

"Um, this may just be the insomnia talking, but didn't you say Clark caught Wayne breaking into his locker this afternoon, just before…" She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence.

"What are you saying?" Pete asked, although he already knew.

"Well, you know, it's not a smoking gun, but you have to consider the possibility that -"

"No." Pete cut her off. "No, Clark is not a killer."

"But-"

"I can't believe you would even think that, after all he's done for you!" He hissed down the phone, tempted to yell, but not prepared to take the harangue his mother would surely give him for waking her up. "He's saved your butt a million times, and now you're accusing him of murder?"

Chloe sighed.

"Maybe you're right." She said, rubbing her eyes. "Ugh, what was I thinking? I need sleep. See you at school?"

"Yeah." Pete replied, too tired to remember that tomorrow was Saturday. "See you."

He hung up the phone and rolled over onto his back, trying to invite back the sweet bliss of sleep.

Sleep, they say, 'knits up the raveled sleeve of care.' Well, if that was true, then Pete needed all the sleep he could get.

He hated to admit it, but what Chloe had said had got him thinking, and after his little defensive outburst, he could never let Chloe know that he was beginning to think Clark's connection to the attacks might be more than a crazy coincidence.

He rolled over again and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He needed some knitting needles, because his sleeve was well and truly raveled.


	4. Attack

"Adams, victim of suspected attempt at triple mass murder." Martha read from the headline of the Smallville Ledger. "Can you believe it?"

"None of us were particularly fond of that woman," Jonathan said while picking some toast out of his teeth. "But she was a good sheriff."

"Best the town's seen in years." Martha agreed solemnly.

"Three attacks in as many days." Jonathan said, shaking his head. "Two of them fatal. Lana was so lucky."

"I know." Martha agreed, pouring coffee from the pot. "Although I don't know if I would consider myself lucky if I was in hospital, with half the bones in my body broken and several stab wounds."

"It could have been a lot worse." Jonathan pointed out.

"I don't even want to think about it." Martha said, shivering.

The day was chill and bleak. Autumn leaves scattered the ground, the pale grey sky adding to the dark, gloomy demeanor that had settled over Smallville.

There was a murderer in their midst.

Once Wayne's and the sheriff's deaths had been published in the newspapers, and the word spread, a heavy depression had spread with it.

The people of Smallville had had more than their share of nut-jobs like this, and knew from experience that freaking out was not going to do any good. Best to just let these things run their course, so that the next meteor-freak or alien or, in this case, mass-murderer can come in and cause havoc among the peaceful Smallvillians. However, it still scared them stiff, and a guy with lethal weapons or deadly super-powers and a less-than-clear mental health record was never welcome in any town, not even Smallville.

It was chilling to think that by Monday, at this rate, this guy may have killed two more people; could be your neighbor, your best friend, your son, your father, or even you.

The weather reflected Smallville's mood perfectly.

Chloe felt like a piece of garlic, trapped in a garlic press, just waiting to be crushed.

She knew it was a strange comparison, but she had a feeling that the murderer had her exactly where he wanted her. He would come back for her, she knew it.

The thought gave her chills, and she wished the weather didn't make it look like late evening instead of almost noon.

She saved the _Torch_ article and shut down the computer. She felt no safer inside her house than out, and so was reluctant to go home.

A coffee at the Talon would calm her nerves a bit. She'd been dying for one for days, but hadn't had the time to stop by.

A triple caramel latte was just what the doctor ordered.

Lana was vaguely aware of someone entering her room and picking up the clip board on the end of her bed.

"Hello, Lana." He said. "My name is Dr. Moss. How are you feeling?"

"Aw…ful." Lana managed to croak.

"Hmm… yes, that's quite a beating you took." Said Dr. Moss. "You're very lucky."

"Luck…y?" Lana asked, just barely intelligible, wondering how on earth anyone could consider her lucky. Dr. Moss sounded just a tad too upbeat for someone dealing with a patient in such dire conditions.

"Well, let's just say it could have been a lot worse." Moss said, giving Lana a plastic smile. "But it's ok. We'll have you fixed up in no time."

Darkness had fallen quickly that evening, Chloe's early sleeping habits ensuring her presence in the kitchen hunting out a midnight snack.

Her face, turned downwards, concentrating on buttering her toast, lined up perfectly in the crosshairs.

She didn't even have time to scream, before pain exploded through her forehead, and everything went black.


	5. Visions

Slowly, soft light began to filter through her barely-open eyelids. She blinked a few times and sat up. It was still dark; the light she had seen was the pale October moon.

_Am I dead?_ She thought.

She reached up and touched her forehead, where a slight pain still lingered. There didn't seem to be any wound at all, from where she had supposedly been shot.

She took her hand away and looked at her fingers. There was no blood.

She slowly and cautiously pulled herself to her feet.

_How could this be possible? I was just shot in the head. How can I stand up, and think, and even breathe, I should be dead!_

Then her common sense caught up with her, and she shook her head, wondering how on earth she could have possibly been so stupid.

_You can't seriously think you were just shot! It was clearly all a dream._

Cruel irony reared its ugly head as the first thing Chloe saw after thinking that was her half buttered piece of toast, butter dish and knife on the floor, as if her buttering had been abruptly… ceased.

_That doesn't mean anything. _She insisted against the foolish voice in her head. _I must have fallen asleep._

This was the theory she decided on, and stuck with.

However, there were two holes in her theory.

One, she hadn't been feeling tired at all when she had come downstairs, having had a good seven to eight hours of sleep already and, two, even if she had been tired, it was extremely doubtful that she would fall asleep in the middle of buttering her toast, and collapse in the floor. When fear is driving us towards an unwelcome truth, even the most rational minds can be clouded by a slightly more pleasant lie. Our subconscious invents these lies to eliminate the element of fear, because, as quoted by herself; 'It is better to live with a lie…'

No, she hadn't fallen asleep, but the illusion was easier to believe than the truth.

Pete waved Chloe over to his table in the Talon. The warm refuge and delicious caffeine aroma of the coffee house was just what she needed to numb the memories of the previous night.

She seated herself opposite Pete.

"Fancy seeing you here." He mocked. "I think they're bringing in Frequent Cafenator points just for you."

"I'm flattered." Chloe said dryly. "Hey, has Clark been in here today?"

"Not while I was here." Pete replied. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen Clark all weekend."

"Hmm, neither have I." Said Chloe. "He was supposed to help me with a _Torch_ article, but he totally bailed on me."

"Well, maybe he was busy?" Pete suggested as a girl in a Talon apron came over to their table. He was getting used to covering for his friend.

"Can I get you anything?" She asked with a friendly smile.

"Please." Chloe said, turning to the waitress. "I'll have a -"

The girl frowned, noticing Chloe staring at her.

"Um, are you okay?" She asked.

Chloe blinked a few times in an attempt to clear her head, and convince herself that the waitress didn't appear to have the number four etched into her forehead.

But it was not her eyes playing tricks, she finally concluded, and looked away, trying not to appear rude.

"- a triple caramel mocha with whipped cream." She finished. "Thanks."

The waitress took down her order, her face hosting a strange expression, and turned back to the counter to prepare her drink.

"That's some scar, huh?" Chloe whispered to Pete.

"Scar?" Pete asked, frowning.

"Oh ha ha. Don't play dumb." Chloe said. "Or did your eyes happen to overlook the giant number '4' carved into her forehead?"

"There was no number, Chloe." Pete said. "You're seeing things."

"No way, Pete." Chloe argued. "It was definitely there. You couldn't miss it."

"Well, I did." Pete insisted. "And it looks like everyone else in here did as well." He stood up. "I'll see you later."

Chloe frowned as she watched Pete walk out of the Talon.

It was true, no one else seemed to have noticed the strange and unsightly scar, but she had seen it, she was sure of it. Was she the only one?

Sunday afternoon was never a very exciting time for anyone in Smallville, but for Clark, it was miserable.

Not because a waitress at the Talon had overcharged him, as per the lame excuse he had invented to tell his parents when they picked up on his dull mood, but because tomorrow he would have to go to school.

The looks he had gotten when he had entered the Talon had confirmed his suspicions that the word had gotten around.

He knew what they were all thinking.

"Clark?" Martha asked, walking cautiously into the room, making sure she kept her eyes fixed on her son, who was staring with a depressed, almost dead gaze straight ahead at nothing in particular.

"I didn't do it." He said, his voice as lifeless as his unwavering gaze.

"You didn't do what?" Martha asked, a puzzled expression migrating onto her face.

"You know what." Clark said icily. "Those murders. I know what everyone thinks."

Martha was taken aback.

"Do you really think that I need to be told that my son isn't capable of committing a mass-murder?" She asked, sitting down beside Clark, so badly wanting to comfort him but terrified that she might make things worse. "Anyone who thinks otherwise isn't worth a second thought."

Clark frowned, torn between keeping quiet and speaking his mind. Finally he settled on the latter.

"Mom, I have to tell you, I've noticed some… there is a certain… likeness, between me and -"

"Clark! I won't let you believe that!" Martha fought back tears. "Whoever is doing these murders has some serious psychological issues. And he will be caught, and put in jail and that will be the end of it!"

It was Clark's turn to be surprised at him Mom's change in attitude. He knew not to argue with her when she was bordering on hysterics.

As the afternoon drew to a close and night set in, a mixture terror, curiosity and foreboding settled over all the families of Smallville, with a similar topic on everyone's minds and a similar question on everyone's lips; who was next?

Hardy anyone dared to speak it out loud. No one really knew why, but it just didn't seem like something you talked about.

Although the question was silent, it was shared between the town like a plague, spreading as gossip and rumors were exchanged, as each person wondered if they would be the next to be knocked off.

All one could do was wait, and hope.

Chloe hung up the phone with so much force that it seemed as if she were trying to smash it against the wall.

The sugary-sweet tone she had used to thank the hospital receptionist was as fake as her six-inch eyelashes.

"Bad news, then?" Pete guessed, a tiny smirk making it onto his face, but quickly incinerated by Chloe's smoldering glare.

"They say Lana's _still_ not ready for visitors!" She growled.

Pete placed a firm hand on her back, attempting to comfort her.

"Hey." He said. "She was only admitted three days ago. It's gonna take some time."

Chloe gave an argumentative grumble.

"Just be patient, ok?" Pete rubbed her back. "We'll go see her soon."

Chloe nodded.

"Ok." She agreed reluctantly, but didn't take her eyes off the phone.

Monday morning and there was still no word of any more killings. Some people thought the lack of deaths meant that the murderer had moved on, but those people were fools.

More logical people realized that he was probably lying low for a few days. He'd come back, and when he did, there wouldn't be anything anyone could do to stop him.

It would be a lie to say that school went on as normal. It was a no-brainer as to what the subject on everyone's minds was, and even the teachers seemed distracted.

In just a few days, Smallville had turned into the crime-scene for Americas Most Wanted. There were police everywhere.

And that was just the beginning.


	6. Victim

Whose cruel idea was it to have American History class first period on Monday? Why couldn't it have been gym, or metal shop, or even a free period, if one dared to be so presumptuous?

Clark's eyes literally lit up when a note landed on his desk. Twenty minutes into the period, still, better late than never.

He carefully unfolded it underneath his desk, while keeping a watchful eye on the teacher (even he had a glazed look in his eyes), ready to shove it in his pocket should he look his way.

The coast was clear, however, so he opened the last fold and read it hungrily. He recognized Pete's scrawny handwriting immediately;

_Are you going to Meg Stevens' party tonight?_

Clark sighed. He hadn't even heard of such a party. Three guesses as to why he hadn't been told.

He decided to omit this certain detail. He was the only one who needed to know about the repairs needed to be made on his social radar.

_I've sort of got other things on my mind at the moment; _He scribbled underneath Pete's message and threw it across the room while the teachers back was turned.

He was alarmed at how quickly the note re-appeared on his desk, and saw that Pete was surprised too, when no more than a few seconds later it landed in front of him. Clearly, neither of them had anything better or more exciting to do.

It's amazing how, when you're bored enough, almost anything will entertain you, Clark thought as he folded the note back up for about the millionth time and chucked it back in Pete's direction.

His stomach nearly fell out his bottom when a hand shot out and grabbed the note in mid-flight.

Their teacher had turned around just as Clark was launching the note. He may be nearing his age of retirement, but his reflexes could give Clark a run for his money.

No one except Clark and Pete were crazy enough to pass notes in Mr. Harlem's class, because if he caught one, he would read it out to everyone, a fact he was confirming now as he unfolded the small piece of paper and cleared his throat.

"Let's see what these gentlemen think is more important than the Declaration of Independence. 'Are you going to Meg Stevens' party tonight?" He began, with the air of someone reading a limerick to a child. "I've sort of got other things on my mind at the moment… That's the whole point, Clark. Take your mind off things… I don't know… Why not? It'll be fun… Pete, I really don't think my presence is going to make anyone feel any more comfortable… Why?.. The accusations… But you didn't do it… I know, but people still think I did… that's no reason to hide indoors… umm… I'm not taking no for an answer. I'll drive you. See you this evening."

He folded the note up carefully, making a big show of perfecting every crease, then promptly ripped it in two and hoofed it into the bin.

"Well, ain't that just dandy." He said in an almost convincing, mocking tone. "Do tell me, who else here is going to Meg Stevens' party?"

About three quarters of the class raised their hands.

"Well, that's just super cool." He continued to mock. "I was thinking of going myself, but I was like totally bummed when I got grounded."

The class sat in silence, waiting for the latest phase of his midlife crisis to pass.

"Well, I'm afraid to inform you that these two -" He gestured to Pete and Clark, having resumed his normal tone of voice. "-will not be joining your merry band of partygoers this evening. Instead, they will be joining me, in detention."

Pete let out a groan, but Clark wasn't too upset. Although he would never admit it, he would rather be confined to detention than at the party, maybe even more than at home. His parents swore that they never would believe that he could murder, but he knew that deep, deep down, possibly even unbeknownst to them, they considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he might have had something to do with it, possibly without even knowing he was doing it.

They had seen his darker side, and they knew that he wasn't always such a nice guy.

-----------------------------------------------------

Chloe stood up from her computer when she saw Pete enter.

"You're not going to believe it." She said before he had even had a chance to say 'hello'.

Pete saw the expression on her face. She looked pale and stricken, and he knew it was serious.

"What?" Pete asked. "Chloe, what happened?"

"No one's going to Meg Stevens' party tonight." She said, trembling and pale as a ghost. "She's dead."

-----------------------------------------------------

Pete caught Chloe's arm in the hall and led her into an empty classroom. His hands were icy cold.

"Chloe, there's something I have to tell you." He said, hurrying to close the door behind them. "I did see Clark last weekend. In the Talon. We got some coffee. He was annoyed, though, because the waitress short changed him."

"Pete, where's this going?" Chloe asked, but dreading the answer.

"The waitress that served him was the same one that served us yesterday." Pete explained, eyes wide. "Meg Stevens."

"The one with the scar…" Chloe trailed off, talking more to herself than to Pete.

"The one with the _imaginary_ scar." Pete corrected her. "Yeah, that's her."

Chloe had long ago put two and two together, and was now hosting a stricken expression on her face.

"I hate to admit it, but you may have been right." Pete said. "Not looking too good for our friend Clark."

"No Pete, I was tired." She argued her friends case. "Rambling. Bordering on delusional."

"That doesn't matter." Pete argued back. "You're still the youngest columnist at the Daily Planet, and nosiest investigative reporter I've ever met. You sniff these things out like a bloodhound!"

"Not when I'm five hours sleep deprived." Chloe insisted. "I swear, I didn't know what I was talking about." She paused. "And neither do you."

Pete seemed as though he was going to argue further, but after a few seconds of consideration, he shut his mouth.

"Whatever." He mumbled quietly.

Chloe couldn't help staring at his back as he turned and retreated, her brow knotted into a question mark.

-----------------------------------------------------

The 'cancellation' of Meg's party left a whole town of nervous teenagers with nothing to do. Self-centered teenagers who only thought about how this affected them. Now what were they to do?

Pete answered that question.

With his mom having been called into Metropolis for an urgent case, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to redirect all the restless ex-partygoers. Everyone needed to be able to take their mind off things. No one wanted to think about how they might soon learn what its like to die.

-----------------------------------------------------

Even though Lana could slowly feel herself getting better, she often could barely move even a finger.

This was one of the times in which she couldn't move at all. She was sedated, and heavily so. She could sometimes hear the doctors talking outside her room, but it was late. They wouldn't be back to check on her until morning.

She was glad her eyes were closed. Her experience had scarred her; not just physically, but emotionally, too. The darkness seemed to engulf her, to seep out at her from all corners of the room, and in her vulnerable state, she didn't like being left alone in the dark. She always had this nagging feeling that whoever it was that had done this to her would come back to finish the job.

Of course, being totally isolated from the world around her, she really had no idea how bad it was.

There was nothing Lana could do but lie there, and it wasn't the most exciting of activities to say the least, but she accepted it, and took it gratefully, knowing that she was lucky just to be alive.

A sliver of light fell across the floor, outlining the shadow of a man entering the room, but, eyes closed tightly, Lana was oblivious.

The figure entered the room, standing only a few feet from her bed. A shiver ran up her spine as she sensed another presence with her in the room. Her heart flooded with fear, but she made no attempt to scream, or open her eyes.

Because, hiding behind closed eyelids, it didn't seem so dark.


	7. Rave

It had begun to rain, the cold water droplets beating hard against Clark's bright red windbreaker as he hurried from the warm, dryness of his pickup truck to the cover of Pete's porch.

He knocked on the door, and it was answered almost immediately by his friend, who hurried him inside.

"Could you set up the food table?" Pete asked once Clark had hung up his coat and kicked off his rain-soaked shoes. "I gotta hide my mom's china."

Clark reluctantly made his way over to the fold-up table propped against the far wall, and began setting it up.

"I can't believe you're throwing a party on the night of a girl's murder." He commented, eyeing Pete warily, awaiting his reaction.

Surprisingly, Pete wasn't mad. Instead, he smiled, piling a set of antique teacups into his arms.

"Clark, don't think of it as a party." He reasoned. "Think of it as homage, a tribute." He raised a teacup as if it was a champagne glass. "To Meg Stevens. And the helluva party she would have thrown."

"Yeah." Clark remarked bitterly. "If she wasn't _dead_."

"Aw, come on, man." Pete picked up a pot plant on top of a big wooden cabinet and took the key that was hidden underneath. He stooped and unlocked the cabinet, stashing the china inside. "Why do you do that? You're such a wet blanket." He straightened up again and crossed the room for the teapot. "You need to have a little fun once in a while. Quit worrying about everyone else for once."

"Pete, there's a mass murderer in Smallville." Clark stated the obvious, beginning to worry more and more about his friend's lack of concern. "So far three people have been killed. Lana's in hospital because of this! How can you not be worried?"

"This is Smallville, Clark!" Pete added the teapot to the cupboard. "Remember? Home of the strange, land of the weird and all that. It's just something you've gotta get used to."

"I don't want to get used to it." Clark muttered as he exited the room to get the food from the kitchen. "I want it to stop."

"Yeah. We all do." Pete said. "But there's nothing any of us can do about it." Clark opened his mouth to respond, but Pete cut him off. "No, not even you. No one even knows who this guy is, Clark."

Clark mumbled a muffled disagreement, but said nothing more.

It wasn't long before a few people started to arrive. Most of them were quiet and somber, but a few seemed to have started the celebrations early, and were in a rather good mood, bringing half-finished six-packs with them.

"You see?" Pete nudged his friend. "I told you they'd come."

Clark didn't reply. Instead, he grabbed a soda, and plopped down in a large armchair. He didn't feel comfortable being here, but Pete would never forgive him if he left now.

Clark stayed seated for a good forty-five minutes, and in that time, Pete's living room had filled with teenagers displaying moods from tearful to flirtatious. His now-empty soda can had become somewhat of a diversion for him, repeatedly squeezing the tin then smoothing out the dents with that satisfying 'pop' sound. He couldn't help resorting to such pathetic levels of entertainment - he refused to enjoy himself. Sure, Clark was just as unlikely to turn down an opportunity for a party as the next guy, but this wasn't right. He was here solely by professional courtesy to Pete - that, and if there _was_ another murder tonight, him leaving the party alone wouldn't be helpful for his case.

Clark was jolted from his thoughts when a young red-head lurched over and collapsed into his lap. In surprise, he jumped, attempting to extract himself from the girl-chair sandwich without any feats of superhuman strength. He failed. Apparently, this would require a much more traditional response.

"Uh... excuse me?" He tried, gently prodding the girl's shoulder. Although it was still early in the party, it was clear that she had already had one too many.

She looked up at Clark in annoyance, as if only just realizing he was there. "What?"

"You're, um..." His level of awkwardness showed through in his voice. "You're lying on me."

The girl's tone suddenly turned seductive, and she snaked an arm behind Clark's head and weaved her fingers through his damp hair. "Mmmm... so I am."

Clark was considering simply rolling her off his lap and onto the ground when an angry voice cut through the dull buzz of the party.

"Kent!" Clark recognized the tall senior from school who was striding towards him, but couldn't have put a name to the face. "You making moves on my girl?"

With the slender red-head draped over him, attempting to unbutton his shirt, and Clark looking completely baffled and uncomfortable, it was beyond him how this guy managed to come to the conclusion that Clark was the one making the moves.

"Me?" Clark wasn't sure what else to say, although it was clear that he was the intended target for the verbal tornado which was to follow.

"Yeah, you, pretty-boy. Do you see anyone else?" Clark didn't point out that there was in fact an entire room of people. "Now why don't you stand up so I can beat your pansy ass to a-"

"Look, I'm not "making moves" on anyone, okay?" It was unusual for Clark to retort in situations like this, but recent events were getting to him, and he didn't need to deal with minor annoyances such as this one on top of everything else. "And I _would_ stand up, if "your girl" wasn't practically straddling me." At Clark's annoyed tone, the girl loosened her grip, allowing herself to slip drunkenly to the floor. Finally able to stand, Clark pushed himself up, and shot a pointed glance at the couple, a muttered 'thank you' and stalked off to find Pete, re-fastening the several shirt buttons the red-head had managed to clumsily get undone.

-----------------------------------------------------

Chloe was finally thankful for the fact that she had never been much of a party-girl. She had been shocked when she heard Pete was supplying a 'replacement get-together' - or 'tribute' as he would shamelessly refer to it as. It wasn't like Pete at all to blatantly undermine something as important as a death with something as social and insignificant as a party. That being said, Pete hadn't been himself for most of the day. But she didn't blame him. The rising number of murders in Smallville was beginning to get to everyone.

Herself included. Now, seated in front of her laptop just after 10pm, she had never been more grateful for the pool of light on the carpet outside her open door, indicating that her dad was still reading under the glow of his bedside lamp. She was beyond the age of sleeping in her dad's bed when she had a nightmare, sure, maybe if only by several years, but it was comforting to know that someone else was awake. That she wasn't entirely alone.

The cursor blinked, taunting her from the screen - not blank as it had been only five or so minutes ago, but now filled with words, almost a whole page.

She wanted answers. The murders, all the signs pointed to Clark, but she knew that he couldn't be behind it. She knew he would never hurt anyone. Call it friend instinct. Call it something more.

That being said, she knew she had to get this down. She had to let her journalistic intuition assess the situation - even just for five minutes - before her 'friend mode' kicked in and wiped it clean from her mind. She scrolled back to the top of the page, reading what she had just written.

_Tell me I'm crazy. Please._

_Insanity would be a welcome reprise from what else I'm feeling. Do I dare even write it? It's like putting it down in words will confirm everything I've been thinking... or at least confirm I've been thinking it at all. I can't stand myself for this, but what I'm feeling is suspicion._

_There's no way I can ignore the signs. Every single murder victim has been linked to Clark, all in a similar way. Namely, they got on his bad side. Even down to something as insignificant as short-change, the signs are still all there. And not to mention Lana... that fight was definitely out of the ordinary. When I found her, I was too shocked to get a good look at the attacker, but I know I would have recognized Clark._

_The one thing I can hold on to through all of this, is that these signs seem a little TOO obvious. Every murder is so perfectly linked to Clark, it could almost certainly be a set-up. Someone framing him. Either that, or just all a crazy coincidence._

_I hope for the latter. In my experience, the Smallville sheriff's department has never found it's forte in spotting an innocent man._

-----------------------------------------------------

In the room next door, Gabe Sullivan reached the end of the chapter, and marked the page, placing the half-finished novel on his beside table and settled down into bed. And on the carpet outside Chloe's open door, the pool of light went out.


	8. Vindication

After this, Clark thought, he may never attend a party again. Aside from the obvious injustice of the situation, Clark couldn't even occupy himself with Pete. He had finally tracked down the host, chatting up some girl, and needless to say he wasn't keen to exchange small talk with his pissed-off best friend. Pete hadn't been acting like himself for the entire day, in fact, and Clark worried that the murders were getting to him more than he was letting on.

It wasn't long before Clark was back in the living room, weaving in between the sea of teenagers. His armchair was now occupied by a couple making out, and he groaned, turning around to reach for another can of soda.

A sudden scream cut through the chatter and buzz like a knife, demanding silence from the room, which obeyed - aside from the music, which continued to blare. Clark froze, hand inches away from a soda can, and he snapped around.

The center of the room had cleared, everyone who had occupied it pressing themselves as close to the walls as possible. Every person except three.

At the other end of the room, huddled together and terrified, the drunk red-head and her boyfriend gripped each other. The girl was on the verge of tears, mouth still open from the scream she had just uttered. Facing them no more than two meters away, eyes cold and murderous, stood Pete, gun in hand.

The couple stood shaking, clinging to one another for what they knew might be the last time. They were too scared to beg for help, and the crowd of teenagers were too scared to offer it. All of Pete's body language, his expression, the way he held the pistol not too tightly or too loose, it was so certain, so purposeful. He wasn't bluffing.

Acting on instinct, and not even registering the room full of people, Clark darted out from the crowd and in a flash, tackled Pete to the ground, rolling through the doorway into the dining room. The gun went off, putting a small, bullet-shaped hole in the ceiling, and producing a few more screams.

As soon as Clark returned to normal speed and let go of his friend, Pete was back on his feet, his fingers slack around the pistol.

"Pete! What are you doing?" Clark kept his tone low so as not to attract any attention to the room, but urgent to show Pete he was serious. Although, he had a feeling that no one would come looking for Pete even if the two of them were yelling at the top of their lungs. Even now, he could hear the scurry from the next room as people hurried to get out of the house.

Pete's face hosted a strange expression - not murderous, and not angry like a minute before. It was a mix between confusion and gratitude. "I did it for you." Was all Pete said before his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

-----------------------------------------------------

12.47am. On the front lawn of the Ross household, at least thirty people stood, mingling, sobbing, taking statements from the witnesses. All their faces were colored blue and red from the lights fixed atop the two police cars parked on the front lawn. And in the back of one, unconscious, sat Pete, slumped against the window, hands in cuffs behind his back.

Needless to say, someone had called the cops. Everyone who had been at the party was questioned, and (to Clark's relief) they all gave the same story as to how he was stopped; "_I didn't see anything, he just... disappeared_."

This was the same thing Clark said when he was asked. He was glad that no one had seen him use his powers, but he was far from happy. What had gotten into Pete back there, he had no idea, but it disturbed him beyond comparison. His words still rang clearly in Clark's mind, a doppelganger for the guilt he'd already been feeling.

_I did it for you_

-----------------------------------------------------

"I just can't imagine Pete doing something like that." Martha said for the hundredth time as she tipped more scrambled eggs onto Clark's plate. The news had reached home before Clark had, and hadn't been able to leave either of his parents' minds since.

"It's like he just lost control." Clark recounted the night before. "And when I stopped him, he said... he said he did it for me."

"He said _what_, Clark?" Jonathan turned all his attention on his son, but Clark had prepared for this, and shoved an extra-large forkful of eggs into his mouth. Jonathan sighed, recognizing the weak avoidance tactic, and continued. "Son, you can't have this kind of damning evidence against you, you're already linked to these murders in too many ways."

"But I didn't _do_ anything!" Clark insisted through a mouthful of egg.

Jonathan nodded. "I know, son, I know you didn't." He braced a reassuring hand on Clark's shoulder. "We know you, and we know you're not capable of anything like that. But the problem is, those sheriffs _don't_."

"Well what am I supposed to do?" Clark asked, exasperated. "Call a do-over, get him to take it back?"

"You need to go and see Pete and try to work out what's going on in that head of his." Jonathan said firmly. "He's going to be questioned, and you need to make completely sure that he isn't going to say anything that might land you in there with him."

-----------------------------------------------------

Clark entered the Torch just as Chloe replaced her telephone on the receiver. He'd heard the end of the conversation from a distance, but not enough to know what the outcome was.

"Was that the sheriff's department?" Clark asked as soon as he was through the doorway. Chloe jumped and whirled around, a hand flying to her chest.

"Clark! You scared me." She paused for her heart to slow to its regular pace, then looked at him strangely. "Yeah, it was. You're quite the eavesdropper."

"What did they say?" Clark asked, ignoring her comment.

"About Pete?" Chloe asked, as if it wasn't already obvious. "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

Clark's heart sank. "I'll take both."

"Alright." Chloe seated herself to relay the information her press-pass had just helped her receive. "The good news is, Pete can't be responsible for the murders and Lana's attack."

"He has an alibi?" Clark guessed.

"Not just one." Chloe informed him. "Pete has an alibi for every single night someone was murdered. No way is he their guy."

"That's a relief." Clark felt as if the weight on his shoulders had been lessened slightly, but then he braced himself. "And the bad news?"

"He's still up for attempted murder." Chloe said, bringing the weight straight back down again. "If he's found guilty, he'll be facing a minimum jail time of seven years."

"But how can he NOT be found guilty?" Clark groaned, realizing Pete's chances were pretty slim. "He turned a gun on some innocent kids; there was a room full of witnesses."

"This is Smallville, Clark." Chloe said simply. "And Pete's behavior was... not his own. There's a good chance that something else is going on here. Something that could potentially save Pete from prison."

Clark couldn't say how much he hoped she was right. He took a moment, absorbing everything she had just told him. It was hard to think of Pete in prison, sharing a cell with a guy twice his size and age. It wasn't how he knew Pete.

"Can we at least go see him?"

-----------------------------------------------------

The guard unlocked a second gate which led into the small concrete hallway lined with cells. It had always reminded Clark of the pound, except instead of locking away dogs, they locked away humans.

The iron-bar door swung open, letting Clark and Chloe into the narrow hallway. "You've got ten minutes." The guard informed them, before locking the door behind them and turning to go back to whatever job he'd been doing previously.

Pete was in the first cell, sitting with his back against the stone wall. He was clad in a neon-orange jumpsuit which clashed frightfully with his skin tone. He turned when he heard them come in, but made no move to get up, and he stared at his friends in apprehension as if he wasn't sure what they were going to say. The two were silent for a moment, before Clark finally approached the bars.

"How's it going?" He offered weakly. He didn't know how Pete would react - if he'd cooled down from the previous night or not. However, he did know that - for the moment, anyway - he was glad for the iron bars separating them.

"Oh, can't complain." Pete replied sarcastically, but both Clark and Chloe were glad to hear the good-natured tone in his voice.

"How are they treating you?" Chloe asked, surprising even herself by the first question that came to her lips.

Pete shrugged, getting to his feet. "Like I tried to kill a couple people."

"Only fair, I suppose..." Chloe mumbled, slightly taken aback by his forwardness. Clark, however, was pleased with his friend's attitude - whatever had happened to him last night was gone now. This was the Pete he knew.

Still, he had to ask.

"Pete, what _happened_ with you last night?" He spoke the question on all of their minds.

Pete sighed, but didn't break eye contact. He wiped the sweat from his palms against the orange fabric of his pants, and nodded. "Well, my new friends don't believe me," Pete rolled his eyes down the hall to where two guards were standing, deep in what was _surely_ a meaningful conversation. "But I'm gonna be totally honest with you."

It was now that his cheery façade gave way, showing the nervous temperament they all knew had been lurking underneath. His brows knotted together in worry, he leaned close to the bars so that he could speak softly.

"Clark, I don't remember anything."


End file.
